The Tub
by bettercrazythanboring
Summary: Put Holiday, Six, sexual tension, and a bag of flour in the same room; what do you get? Not cake, that's for sure. (Smut. Smut is what you get.)


How they ended up here, Holiday will never be able to tell anyone; she can barely remember herself. Something about Rex and birthday cakes, and misplaced swords, and offered help, maybe. All that's important right this second is that she's covered in flour head to toe, with great chunks of sugary dough stuck in her hair and to her cheek, and between her breasts.

And all that's _really_ important is that the very skilled mouth of an agile man is currently making the trek from her sticky neck to her even stickier chest, and he's unbuttoning her shirt with her teeth as his hand roam over her sides, igniting them until she's fairly certain she could cook the cake with her body heat alone.

"Mm, Six," she says through her pants, "we're in the kitchen. Someone could walk in."

He kisses his way up to the already-tingling area behind her ear. "I don't think anyone in the building is unaware we occasionally dabble in these things."

She snickers into his mouth, lips red and pliable and no longer covered in anything. "Occasionally?"

"It's an occasion every time," he says and lifts her up onto the counter to have easier access to her now-exposed green bra and all it holds within it, delighted when her legs wrap around his hips. "No matter how often these occasions pop up," he adds with a sly smirk.

"Mmm, I might agree with you on that—" she says and starts taking his floury jacket off; it's kind of unfair that he's so covered in clothing because she's suddenly having all kinds of fantasies and desires about licking him clean the way he's… very enthusiastically doing her at the moment. Dissatisfied with the predicament when she loosens his tie and opens his shirt, exposing perfectly clean skin underneath, she dunks her hand in the nearest bowl of whatever they were trying to cook—almost breaks his sunglasses lying on the counter while searching for it—and rubs it all over his chest. "There; now we're even," she says, eyes dark, half-lidded, and excited.

He stops nibbling and glances down at the creamy dough, eyes lingering on the sight of the woman sucking her fingers clean for a moment too long. "Was that entirely necessary, doctor?"

"Yes." She grabs on his tie and pulls him in for a deep, long kiss. "Very, _very_ necessary," Rebecca breathes and presses into him, hands roaming over Six's tightly toned ass; her teeth scrape his chin. "But I wanted to say that, despite most agents being aware these things… happen—" she says, desperately trying to grab onto whatever hair he has; did he start growing it out when they first got physical? "—I don't think many of them would appreciate a visual demonstration of their superiors engaging in such activities in common rooms," she stammers out through his hand traveling up her calf and to her thigh. "_Especially_ Rex."

His fingers stop trying to ignore her underwear. Six glances up at her. "Pantry?"

"Pantry," she agrees and yelps when he picks her up as if she were a cotton ball, hasting to the closet space on the other side of the room.

The moment the door closes and they have absolute privacy, he presses her against the metal shelves with intensity that rattles the bowls in them, and rips open her blouse, eyes dark enough to send battalions of heat rushing to her center.

Rebecca does the same to his shirt—leaving the loose tie in place, which makes for an equally disheveled and stripper-like look and gets her even crazier for him—and nibbles a large S over his chest, lapping up a good portion of the mess her hands caused. While she's busy doing that, his hands roam up her thighs and hike her pencil skirt so far up it barely qualifies as a belt, and release her hair from the confines of its bun; when she gets it into her head that she can just lazily stroke his cock and twist his nipple at the same time, Six has had just about enough of these games.

He removes her legs from his waist, makes sure she's sitting firmly on one of the shelves, and kneels.

First it's just the same nibbling on the inside of her sugar-covered thigh, the strokes over the back of her knees—which he knows from experience are very responsive—but when he gets close enough that the insane heat radiating from her core tickles his cheek and drives him mad with lust, that's when she bucks her hips into his face and he's done; it's over.

Or just beginning, depending on your point of view.

Within minutes, her hands are fisted tightly into his hair and the shelves tremor to the beat of her rocking hips, and Six has to physically pry her thighs apart because they keep closing in around his head with the kind of strength he didn't even know she possessed. When he withdraws to regain some semblance of oxygen in his lungs, she interprets this as withdrawing for good, and he'll never understand quite where the can of whipped cream came from, but seconds later her wet folds are covered with the thick, light substance and he barely registers his mouth watering harder than it ever has before his tongue is back on her of its own volition.

She comes—once, maybe twice; her mewls and moans are music to his ears, but she's not one to hold back during foreplay, so he can't be one hundred percent sure what's release and what's just a really good stroke that he should remember to use in the future. He could probably be happy living out the rest of his life here with her legs wrapped around his neck, EVOs be damned, but then a couple of Providence agents enter the kitchen and start loudly commenting on the battle that must no doubt have ensued there—fierce enough to get the resident ninja's freaking _sunglasses_ off—and she comes again almost instantly, forgetting what being quiet is, so Six has to depart from this paradise and silence her mouth with his own, if that's even possible with the erratic whines and gasps coming from it.

When the agents are gone and her sounds have subsided, he rests her forehead against hers. "Hi," she says with a smile.

"Hi." The man kisses her with less of a ravaging fire now and more of a slow burn. He's still so hard he could beg, though. "It appears you were right. How about we finish this somewhere else?"

She bites her lip as her eyes travel lower, over his sweaty, messy chest and stained shirt, and strong legs, gaze lingering on the bulge in his pants. "I think I've got the place, if you can be stealthy for about two minutes."

He only raises an eyebrow.

Not much later, she whirls around on him in the bathroom of her quarters and starts removing his clothing like some eager teenager after a six month dry spell. Her nails scratch along his back as his shirt slips off and elicit a powerful growl for him that cuts off abruptly when she takes his shaft into her hands; he hadn't noticed his pants were undone, and that's saying a _lot_.

They end up naked, sweaty, and messy against the atom-tiled bathroom wall, and a good while passes with the groping and the squeezing and the kissing before they even stumble into the shower. And then it's all slippery, shiny bodies and hot water tingling all the right senses, and grinding against each for relief while their mouths seem impossible to separate. His fingers are in her damp, half-wet hair, and her hands are grabbing onto his ass for dear life and there's so little space between them that even the water barely gets through, but then she draws back, panting, and then the next thing he knows, she's on her knees, kissing his aching cock with the same fervor she was just giving his mouth.

There's tongue and lips molding to his shape, and a bit of teeth the way he likes it, and, by the time Holiday squeezes his butt tight and fucks him into her throat, his taut abdomen twitches as if his nerves got crossed wrong, and he can no longer make any sounds or even breathe, really, only stare into the distance with that vacant, focused look and a gaping mouth. One of her favorite things about Six is the control he has over himself, how aware he is of everything, always, how compartmentalized and analytical he can get; it's what makes him such a good agent, what makes them such a good team, and what makes getting to know him an experience unlike anything else.

Her _other_ favorite thing in life with Six is making him lose that very control, turning him into a mass of sensations and impulses and instincts. A hard task, but an immensely rewarding one, and something she takes absolutely _every_ opportunity to try her hand—or her mouth—at. Would it be a lie to say that she's pretty amazing in this area by now? The tremors rocking his hips, his slightly wobbly knees, and that oh so glorious expression stuck on his face don't seem to think so. In fact, "pretty amazing" may very well be an understatement.

But there's a scorching fire in her too, which gets stronger and less bearable every time his fingers twist in her hair, and she's not about to let him be the only one to lose control. So with one last lick, one last drag of her lower lip over the underside of his dick, she sloppily kisses her way up his still-quivering abdomen and drags her teeth on the side of his ribs, and bites down on his shoulder—which elicits the first audible sound he's made since she started sucking him—until her mouth is back on his and Six has regained enough capacity for thought to figure out that shoving his hand between her legs is the best thing to do in the situation.

Water rains on their backs and envelops them in a thick, hot mist, and they're pressed so close Six can't tell where she ends and he begins—not that he's particularly trying to. His palm rubs over her lips down below in chaotic, hasty movements, all methodical precision gone; there's a part of him that's scared that the world will turn into an inferno if he slips his fingers in. Already it feels like the insane heat will swallow him whole any moment now.

That decision, that fear gets taken out of his hands when Holiday abruptly whirls around and presses her ass against his groin and clutches his hands to her hips and pelvis before he can even blink. Her head lolls to the side and he kisses her shoulder, and the next thing they know, he's driving into her.

It starts out slow and restrained, just like their relationship used to be, but when a particularly poignant roll of his hips sends them both grunting and yelping, all caution goes to the wind. Rebecca bends in half and braces herself against the shower seat, and holds steady as a rock as he rams into her, even when one of his hands starts working her little bead as frantically as his hips move. Her hair falls over her head and she's pretty sure she inhaled some of it earlier, and remnants of make up color the water still running over and under them, and all she can think of is, god, _why_ have they never done this before?

Her movements match his and the shower massages her lower back—right above where she feels the heat collect in sharp, icy bolts of lightning from her throbbing core up her ass and down her thighs—and she's so close she would probably shove all her vials of EVO samples onto the floor for just a _taste_ of that building orgasm right now, but she has a better partner than that.

Feeling her unraveling all around him—the most glorious sensation in the world; aside from saving the world, maybe—Six pulls out and gets on his knees behind her, mouth returning to her flush core in long, fast strokes and fingers taking the place of her on his cock. His tongue glides over and into her with little to no effort and then she rocks her hips into his face herself, and she's almost there, almost, _almost_, just a bit tighter do her muscles need to clench—god, her cunt feels like one of those hot metal rods, set aflame to the point of pain—and then he sucks on her clit, hard and long and unrelenting, and she's done for.

That golden explosion of perfect calm spreads through her nerves, all the way to her fingertips, and stays for a perfect ten seconds in which the entire world is silent and insignificant and she is at peace; then everything zooms sharply back into focus—the washed out colors on the motivational poster she tucked onto the shower wall years ago, the rhythmic patter of water against their skin, the mist scorching her throat through her erratic breaths, the blood pumping in her veins like death itself were chasing it—and Rebecca continues fucking herself against his face through the last of the aftershocks.

They last a good deal longer than she's used to and by the end she's soft and well-sated, but exhausted. Her legs finally give out and she curls up in the corner of the cabin, against the seat she will now forever get hot and bothered seeing, and, with the laziest smirk her face can muster up, takes in the sight of the gorgeous man kneeling two feet away. Water flattens his thick, short hair against his head and drips down over leanly muscled shoulders, glistening on the few tattoos he usually keeps so well hidden, and pools next to his bent legs, which lie relaxed and tenseless on the floor in a pose so uncharacteristic of him.

He must have come somewhere in the middle of all of it; there's a few white ropes on the glass walls that haven't been washed away by the water yet, but, most of all, she knows from personal experience that Six only gets that serene look on his face—lightly closed eyes, ajar mouth, the slightest hint of a smile—after a particularly good fuck.

She takes the sight in leisurely, eagerly, and with the smallest of tugs in her belly when her gaze lingers on his crotch; man, she may be spent, but when he looks like this, she'd probably go again (and again, and again, and again) if he simply thought to ask. She _tries_ to keep herself from replaying all the things he's done to her in these situations, all the things he's ignited within her—honestly, she does—but somehow inevitably, by the time he's gathered his wits enough to open those gorgeous, direct, green eyes, she's staring at him like a huntress cornering her prey.

They're both naked and sweaty, and still covered in leftover dough and each other's saliva, and it gets pretty hard to ignore all those memories and sensations and stolen glances of bare bodies when they're quite literally running their hands all over each other to get all the mess off with soap. Eventually, they just stop trying and end up against the wall again—slow and lazy this time.

When they finally manage to put some robes on and stumble out of the misty bathroom, Holiday doesn't even pretend she's not going straight for the bed. Six, however, actually considers getting another training session in. For about half a second. At which point he follows her and collapses on the soft covers, drifting into sleep with one last kiss.

In the morning, she orders a birthday cake from the nearest bakery and calls it a day.


End file.
